but love is rust-
A timeline that stenches too bad-
but you would defy with your wise words.
Always trying to be a seismic thunder across my belly.
You- the sinner who does not know- the skins, the shades, the hopes
you die each night with many muted nights
you can’t get enough love they say- but where is it?
Underneath your lips or mine?
Where does it stand now?
Wait! Watch the stairs- the boundless threads of little steps
of small quivering moons, cotton candies
And you say you do not sniff it
or climb onto its porous formation
Heat- disoriented energy
Mouth- frayed fingers unable to count moles
Furrows of trembling nerves- but you do not see.
For you have a voice that never speaks
A scrap of sickle and dust.
For love is nothing but a sensation and science,
Metaphysics and galaxies all collapsing through my womb
air currents reaching up:
tender cold bare existence.